A Small Favor
by tpel
Summary: How did Chance and Guerrero reconnect after the flashback events in "Christopher Chance"?  This story is a prequel to my other fic, "The Visitor" - I recommend reading that one first.


**Part 1, of 2**

_About 4 ½ years ago . . ._

A minute after Christopher Chance entered his home, he realized there was something wrong. He chastised himself: in his line of work, that wasn't nearly quick enough.

There were no obvious clues that anything was amiss. Of course, given the people he was dealing with, he wouldn't expect anything obvious. No, what set off alarm bells inside his head was simply that it took a few seconds longer than usual for the dog to run to the door and greet him.

Carmine, at almost two years old, was completing the transition from gangly puppy to huge dog. He'd grown to what was presumably his adult size, but he was still awkward and excitable. Carmine didn't seem to be concerned at all, but Chance, who'd spent the last eighteen months (since parting company with the Old Man) looking over his shoulder, was.

A rustling sound came from the room that he had set up as an office. It was possible that his business partner, Winston, had dropped by to discuss a case. Possible, but unlikely: Winston always called before coming over outside of regular work hours.

Chance picked up a gun he had stashed in a convenient niche and headed toward the sound. He approached the room quietly, though it was likely that his element of surprise was blown already – the intruder would have heard the elevator arrive and noted Carmine's rush to the door. Through the glass of the partition, he could see a light on near the desk, but couldn't get a line of sight on any occupant. That was probably not accidental.

Chance burst into the office and swept his gun efficiently across the room.

"Hey, dude." Guerrero was lounging at the desk, computer on, perusing a couple of files from the (supposedly locked) file cabinet. He was eating from a carton of Chinese food that smelled suspiciously familiar.

Chance did not return the greeting. Instead, keeping his gun trained on Guerrero's head, he barked, "Did he send you?"

Guerrero made no move to draw a weapon, or even get up. He responded calmly, "Who? The Old Man? Does it _look_ like I'm here to kill you?"

Chance relaxed somewhat, lowering but not stowing his gun. It did seem unlikely that Guerrero was hunting him right now. The smaller man depended on stealth, on getting the drop on people. If he were there on a hit, no way would he give Chance the opportunity to hold him at gunpoint – not again, anyway. And the feet currently propped on the desk were clad in boots; Guerrero wore sneakers when he anticipated that things might get physical.

With a wry half-smile Chance replied, "No. Usually you steal their food AFTER you kill people."

"Yeah, doing it the other way around seems kinda rude, huh? Want some?" Guerrero grinned, tilting the carton toward Chance.

Chance shook his head, finally putting away the gun. "How did you find me?"

Guerrero made a dismissive gesture. "Piece of cake. I've known where you were for over a year. Gotta tell you, setting yourself up as the new Christopher Chance, that takes major cajones."

"Does anybody else know?"

Guerrero shrugged, "If they do, they didn't hear it from me." Perhaps realizing that this response was far from reassuring, he added, "Pretty sure they don't know. The boss quit asking me to track you down, and the rest of them couldn't find their asses with both hands."

That last part was far from true; the Old Man had several excellent assassins in his employ, including Baptiste. They were only incompetent trackers in comparison to Guerrero, whose skills at locating people and information bordered on the supernatural.

Chance was curious about why Guerrero had refused to help find him. Granted, Guerrero was an independent player, working for the Old Man on a commission basis, rather than a full time member of the organization. But still, you don't just say no. Repeatedly. Instead, Chance asked, "Why are you here?"

"I need a favor."

That was unexpected. Chance maintained a poker face and waited for the other man to continue.

"There's someone I need to relocate to the San Fran area. I figure you know the lay of the land here, and now that you've gone over to the light side of the Force, you're probably pretty decent at hiding people."

"Why can't you do it yourself?"

"I don't want her to be connected with me in any way, and she can't show up on the Old Man's radar, which she might if I became personally involved. Plus, I'm better at finding people than hiding 'em."

Despite his neutral tone of voice and placid expression, an almost imperceptible tightening in Guerrero's posture piqued Chance's curiosity. The job sounded kind of personal, and there was a female involved. Hmmm, Guerrero never struck Chance as the romantic type. With a little grin he asked, "Mind telling me who 'she' is?"

Guerrero shot him a scowl that said, _yes I mind very much_. While he sometimes volunteered bizarre tidbits about his life experiences, Guerrero wasn't generally big on sharing. But he was, above all else, pragmatic. It wouldn't make sense to ask Chance to hide someone without knowing what he was hiding her _from_, and that required a certain amount of back-story. Grudgingly, he replied, "My daughter."

Chance's poker face wavered, just a little. "Go on," he said.

"Her name's Tina. She's three. Lives with her mom, Angie, back east. The guy they were living with kicked 'em to the curb when he found out Tina's not his. Well, that and Angie might've swiped one of his credit cards . . ." Guerrero smirked briefly, "Anyway, Ang keeps getting busted for stupid shit like that, and if she can't keep her butt out of jail, Tina will go into state custody. My DNA's been in the system. I don't want to take any chances that she gets linked to me and it comes to the attention of one of my fans."

"Why San Fransisco?"

"Angie's got family here. And the dad of one of her other kids is nearby. The move makes sense, shouldn't raise any red flags."

"Yeah, it makes so much sense that I'm not clear on why you need me. Why don't they just get on a plane and move here?"

"The problem is, on account of Angie's legal difficulties, she can't leave town right now, and she might have to do a little time, which leaves her kids in limbo. Local Dad will go out there and get his son and Angie's older daughter and bring 'em to Angie's mom, here. That leaves Tina."

"Why can't Local Dad bring Tina too?"

Guerrero shrugged, "He says he can't handle her – 'least, that's what he told Angie."

Chance knew that people often revised their estimates of what they could "handle" after conversing with Guerrero. But he could see why intimidating the other father might not be the way to go in this situation, not if he needed someone he could count on to get the job done. "Local Dad is a bit of a wuss, eh?"

"Looks that way."

"Why me? What makes you think _I'll_ do this for you?" It was a legitimate question. Chance had always enjoyed a good working relationship with Guerrero, but they hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms.

Guerrero's eyes were the blue-gray color of freshly poured concrete – and just as opaque – as he said evenly, "Well, I do have certain information on your whereabouts that you'd rather not have conveyed to the wrong people . . ."

Not having much to go on, Chance decided to play a hunch: _for whatever reason, he didn't sell me out when he could have; he doesn't want to now._ Chance met his companion's hard gaze openly and, letting just a trace of hurt into his voice, asked, "Are you blackmailing me, Guerrero?"

Guerrero hesitated, then looked down. His tone uncharacteristically tentative, he replied, "Do I have to?"

Chance found his head shaking immediately, before his brain caught up and supplied the word, "No."

Guerrero stared back, brow furrowed slightly in puzzlement. Chance remembered that look from their last encounter:

_In the cabin . . ._

_Punching at Guerrero wasn't proving effective – he was too damn fast, shunting Chance's blows aside and following up with well-placed jabs and kicks. Time to play dirty. The gentlemanly part of his mind pointed out that it's tacky to take advantage of the fact that you are a whole lot bigger than your opponent. But such schoolyard niceties don't apply when your opponent is a professional assassin who's there to kill you. Chance charged the slighter man, slamming him into the wall; then he picked him up, flipped him over and sent him crashing onto a table, which collapsed with the impact. _

_That was enough to knock the wind out of Guerrero, giving Chance the opportunity to retrieve the gun. Guerrero lay on his back in the rubble of the table, trying to catch his breath, staring up at the weapon in Chance's hands. In his typical nonchalant manner, he said, "Don't make a whole thing out of it." _

_What kind of last words are those? Actually, they were perfect for Guerrero: life, death – none of it meant very much, certainly not something worth getting worked up over. The smart thing for Chance to do would be to go ahead and put a bullet between Guerrero's eyes right now. The man was dangerous – he tracked them down once; he could do it again. Chance had already given him an opportunity to walk away, and he didn't take it. There was no good reason not to take the shot._

_Except he didn't want to._ _ 'Nobody deserves to die' isn't a very radical motto if you only apply it to sweet girls with puppies who bake cookies. It would really show his commitment to this point of view if he could apply it to someone who, were his deeds brought to light, would easily be condemned to death by a jury of his peers. Nah – that's bullshit. That's not why he didn't want to kill Guerrero. It was far simpler than that: he liked the guy._

_When Katherine placed her hand on his arm, Chance lowered his gun without resistance. That's when he saw confusion flicker briefly across Guerrero's face . . ._

Chance mused: he didn't get why I didn't kill him then, and he doesn't get why I'm willing to help him now. Some guys you don't want to confuse – it pisses them off, makes them feel stupid or out of control of the situation. But Chance knew Guerrero wasn't like that – he loves puzzles, loves figuring stuff out. A confused Guerrero is an interested Guerrero.

Even if he wanted to, Chance wasn't sure he could explain his change of heart to a guy whose entire moral vocabulary seemed to consist of the categories 'cool and 'not cool'. Fortunately, he didn't have to.

He pulled a chair over to the desk, sat in it, smiled, and said, "So, what's the plan?"

Author's note: To be continued, though it's likely to take a while – I write slowly!


End file.
